Purgatory

by K M Stross

  As soon as he was clear of the fence, he began to run.

  CHAPTER 21

  The toes of Cross’s boots dug deep into the loose dirt of the hill. His calves burned, the meat behind his knees screaming in agony with every fresh step. The heavy feeling in his lungs, punctuated with each fresh breath, warned of a complete shutdown of the body if the momentum did not cease.

  And still, Cross continued. Any thoughts of Maria, of Purgatory or anyone and anything else had long ago dissipated. All of it was fleeting, all of it tertiary to the goal of cutting the distance between him and Morrissey. To see that shadow within an arm’s reach, to be able to reach out and drive the blade into Morrissey’s soft back flesh was the only fuel driving Cross’s body, a combustible energy so unstable that it threatened to contract his arteries and seize his heart.

  Cross fell to his knees, his legs unable to continue, dragging behind his body like twin anchors while he dug his fingers into the soft, cool earth. He crawled the last ten yards to the top of the hill, discharging clouds of dust with each exhale, sucking those very same particles of earth into his lungs when he breathed in. He could not feel the fine grains of sand in his left eye. He could not see anything in his left eye anymore, not even the tunnel that had become so familiar.

  At the top of the hill, he strained to peer into the valley, where the national park officially began, and the cacti grew in thick clusters. His right eye had begun to tunnel, closing in around his vision like a blanket of oil. For a moment, he was sure that the glaucoma was blinding him permanently. But then he realized, vaguely, that his head had become light, floating above his neck. He saw a flash of light, a singular beam no more than fifty yards away, near the foot of the mountain off to his right.

  And then the dark tunnel closed.

  In his dream, he stood in a quarry, alone, using his hands to feel around the smooth granite chunks protruding from the earth as his body floated over the ground. He could hear the screams of Yolanda in the distance and tried to follow them, cutting his hands on the edges of the granite. The darkness began to subside, and Cross could see through tunneled vision a dark figure sitting atop one of the larger granite rocks at the foot of the quarry, holding his fists tightly against his cheeks. His mouth was open, and Yolanda’s screams continued, slowly dying away as the figure’s lungs deflated.

  “Why are you here?”

  Cross recognized the voice, and as he took a step closer, the darkness seemed to drift away to reveal Morrissey’s scarred face. Both of Cross’s eyes functioned, and yet even in his dream, they felt clumsy, as if his brain had forgotten what a clear image looked like, what it was like for both eyes to work together.

  “To kill you,” Cross said. He took another step forward, unsure of what to do with his bleeding hands but knowing full well that he would pull the man from his perch and strangle him if necessary.

  “But I’m a saint,” Morrissey whispered.

  “I have to kill you to lift the curse,” Cross said, taking another step forward. Even in the dream, his movements were shaky, his leg quivering under the weight of his body. “I won’t rest until you’re dead.”

  “And what will God say?” Morrissey asked, looking up. His eyes had no life left in them, ignoring the vague light emanating from nowhere and everywhere at once, a microcosm and macrocosm of dreamscape. “What if you’re not cursed at all?”

  Cross did not answer.

  “Ah,” Morrissey said, licking his lips. “Doubt. Dance with her, Chandler.”

  Cross took one more step, closed his fists and lounged forward. Darkness swelled from all directions, closing in on them like a vise. He fell back, struggling with it, screaming, trying to fight away the pitch-blackness, his enemy, the only thing left to fear.

  He felt the beam of light behind his right eyelid first. He opened his eyes. The left side of his vision was black.

  “English?” a rough, male voice asked.

  Cross tried to bring his right hand up to shield his good eye from the light but immediately felt a large, calloused hand wrap around it, holding it to the ground. His fingers pressed into the dirt—his knife was gone.

  “Do you speak English?” another much younger, brighter voice asked. “Listen, you goddamn spic. Speak English?”

  “A man,” Cross said in a raspy voice. His dry tongue clicked painfully against the insides of his cheeks.

  “What?” the first voice asked. He had a deep voice.

  “Morrissey,” Cross said. He licked his cracked lips and tried again, but the word seemed to dance around his tongue before disappearing in his throat along with a thick, sticky wad of saliva.

  “That Spanish?” the second one asked. “What’s that Spanish for, you goddamn piece of shit?”

  “Hold up, Ray. Get him while his mouth is open.”

  Cross felt a cold stream of water drip into his mouth, choking him until his throat could open and greedily consume the liquid between breaths. Even the wetness running down his cheeks felt rejuvenating, the tiny creases in his skin sopping up what they could while chunks of sweaty, caked dirt washed away.

  When the water stopped, Cross heard the sound of footsteps crunching on the dry ground. He turned his head slightly to try and find the boots to match the sounds, but the beam of light followed his movements.

  “Stay still,” the deep voice said.

  Cross turned back and laid his head flat on the hard ground. He could feel three separate rocks digging their sharp edges into his back, causing his muscles to tighten and spasm with each breath. Each one seemed to prod and enflame his temper, flushing his ears red and electrocuting his brain with images of Morrissey running, escaping, sliding back into the comfort of darkness.

  “Do you speak English?” the deep voice asked.

  “A man,” Cross said. He took a deep breath, feeling a sharp pain in the pit of his stomach. “A man came through here.”

  Something cold pressed against his temple. “Answer the question, you fucking spic.”

  “Goddammit, Ray,” the deep voice said. “Obviously he speaks English.”

  “A man,” Cross said, ignoring the cold metal against his head, vaguely aware that it must be a gun. “Morrissey.”

  “There’s someone else,” the deep voice said, not in Cross’s direction but instead aimed at the direction of the footsteps.

  “Morrissey,” Cross said again.

  Ray’s gun pressed harder against Cross’s temple. “If you don’t shut up I swear to God I’ll shoot you.”

  “Ray I swear to God I’ll take that gun from you and send you back to Montana if you don’t settle the fuck down.”

  Cross watched the flashlight shake for a moment, briefly revealing the two hulking figures squatting behind it. The light righted itself, and again Cross was blinded, ensconced in a brightness that felt neither welcoming nor warm.

  “Just… take it easy,” the deep voice said. “Okay? Play this by the books.”

  “Okay,” said Ray. His voice cracked slightly.

  “Who’s the other person you’re with?” the deep voice asked. A rough hand reached over the beam of the flashlight and gently tapped Cross’s face. “Hey. Hey, don’t pass out again. Who’s the other person you’re with?”

  “Tell us,” Ray said. “Tell us because if we find him sneaking around here were gonna fucking shoot him. You got that?”

  “Morrissey,” Cross whispered.

  “What?” the first voice asked. “What is that?”

  “Gabriel Morrissey,” Cross said. He took another deep breath, ignoring the pain in his stomach that had begun to spread up, tucking neatly between each of his ribs. “He came over the hill before I did.”

  “Fuck,” Ray said. He stood up, disappearing behind the flashlight. “Fuck, I didn’t even see him. We let a fucking illegal in right under our fucking noses. We’re gonna be laughingstocks.”

  “Settle down. This is why we have positions to the north. This is no big deal.”

  Cross heard t
he shuffling of feet on dry dirt. “You know what, Schmidt? You’re not taking any of this seriously at all. His friend that just snuck in? That’s one less job for your pals in town now. We need to get information from this guy, and we need to hunt down his friend.”

  The light in Cross’s eyes shifted slightly, then righted itself again before he could get a good look at either of the large shadows squatting over him. He licked his lips, tasting the salt of sweat just below his nose. Another shuffling of steps and the barrel of the gun was now resting haphazardly next to his nose, threatening to blow off a significant portion of cartilage with just one slip of a sweaty finger too close to the hairpin trigger.

  “We’ve got one AWOL across the border,” said the man named Schmidt. “Male, possibly still within a half-mile radius. Over.”

  Cross tried to calculate how quickly he could have run half a mile over the hilly terrain, how long he could have possibly blacked out before coming to. How long he had already wasted lying on his back being probed like an alien test subject by two pissed-off men.

  “What were you gonna do with that knife?” Ray asked, pressing the barrel of his gun hard against Cross’s upper lip.

  “Goddammit,” Cross said, wincing in pain and turning his head slightly. The barrel followed, resting against his cheek. They both smelled like Old Spice deodorant, and he guessed both of their underarms were sweating even with the cool breeze passing across the open desert. Cross was sweating too. He wanted more water. Dirt had caked to his wet lips.

  “You gonna try and kill someone?” Ray asked. “It’s a pretty nasty knife to keep around for decoration. Especially if it’s tucked in your boot. Can’t show it off all that often if it’s tucked in your goddamn boot.”

  “Fuck you,” Cross said.

  The barrel pressed harder into his temple. “Say it again. We caught you running around the border with a goddamn knife. You think anyone is going to ask any questions if we shoot you?”

  “They’ll ask a whole load of questions,” Cross said, the surging adrenaline causing his voice to shake uncontrollably, “just as soon as they realize I’m a priest from the United States of America.”

  The light faltered slightly, making its way down Cross’s body. He felt one large hand clumsily dig into his right jean pocket, then his left, pulling out the contents and resting them on Cross’s stomach.

  “Oh hell,” Schmidt said. Cross glanced up and saw the flashlight beam shining on the white collar.

  “I patted him down before,” Ray said. His voice squeaked on every word. “That wasn’t fucking there. I patted him down.”

  “I told you to check his pockets. I told you to fucking check his fucking pockets you stupid fuck! Do you have any idea how pissed off the sheriff’s gonna be?”

  “Schmitty I patted him down just like you told me to!”

  “All you had to do was check his pockets!”

  The light faltered again. Cross could finally see the shapes of the two men arguing behind the flashlight. Schmidt was holding the flashlight at arm’s length, and his elbow tucked neatly over his heavy stomach threatening to lose the buttons that held together his short-sleeved plaid shirt. His face was rough, thick, with a small nose hidden behind two beady dark eyes. What few hairs remained on the top of his head were distraught, catching the smooth breeze. He was kneeling, looking at Ray who was squatting and rubbing his sweaty hand on his jeans. Ray’s stomach protruded less from his button-up shirt, his arms folded over his knees and the gun pointed casually in Cross’s direction. Ray wore a dark cap tightly over his head, obscuring his thin facial features and keeping the darkness safely around his eyes.

  Cross rolled onto his side, pulling the large pebbles off his shirt and rubbing his sore back.

  “I swear to God, Schmitty. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s funny,” Schmidt said. “Maybe the priest here can make a collect call to the Almighty and give us a pass on this one!”

  The radio at Schmidt’s belt crackled to life. “What’s going on over there? I can hear you yelling half a mile away. Over.”

  Schmidt grabbed the radio from his belt and pressed it against his fat, grizzled face. “False alarm. I don’t know why he was in Mexico, but he’s not illegal. Over.”

  “What’s this?” Ray asked, pulling The Principles of Flight from Cross’s back pocket. He held it in front of Cross’s face.

  “It’s… nothing,” Cross said. “Just a book.”

  Ray tossed it on the ground. “Here.” He set the white tab on Cross’s chest. Cross grabbed it and tucked it under his collar.

  “He’s one of us? Over.”

  Schmidt looked at Cross, turning the flashlight over and obscuring Cross’s vision once again. “What the hell are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere, Father?”

  “Doing the Lord’s work,” Cross said.

  Schmidt sighed, blowing warm menthol-scented air in Cross’s direction. “Can you please give us a better reason than that? This is serious.”

  Cross thought a moment. “A mission trip. You want to know the details?”

  Schmidt lowered the flashlight, and Cross could again see the radio pressed against his fleshy lips. “He’s just a priest. Over.”

  “What about the guy he was with? Over.”

  Schmidt flashed the light back on Cross.

  “A friend,” Cross said through gritted teeth. His stomach churned when the words escaped his lips. “Part of the mission.”

  “He’s with the priest,” Schmidt said into the radio.

  “What’s a priest need a knife for?” Ray asked.

  “Roger that,” the voice on the radio said through increased static. “I’ll let him go.”

  “What?” Cross asked. He felt his heart begin to speed up again. “Did he…”

  “Hey,” Ray said. “What do you need this knife for then?” He was holding Cross’s knife in his hand, dangling it in front of the flashlight.

  “What did he say?” Cross asked Schmidt, who was fiddling with the radio’s receiver channels.

  “Mike,” Schmidt said into the talkie. “Mike, you there?”

  “Hey, priest.”

  Cross sat up, immediately feeling his head begin to lighten. He fell back onto his elbows, digging them into the hard dirt, feeling the small pebbles pressed against his soft skin.

  Schmidt ignored him, staring intently at the talkie for a response. “Mike.”

  “Priest,” Ray said. “Where the fuck is your friend going without you?”

  “Mike.”

  “Is he there?” Cross asked. “Does Mike see him? Ask him where he is!”

  Schmidt lifted his finger from the radio button, giving up for a moment and taking another deep breath. “Mike’s a half mile north, at one of the water stations.” He turned the small channel dial, and the plastic click echoed all around them. “Mike?” he said again.

  “Get Mike to stop him,” Ray said. “I bet you the priest smuggled in an illegal.” He turned to Cross. “Didn’t you, you fucker? And why you got a knife?”

  “Stop him!” Cross said, trying to get up. Again, he felt his head begin to lighten, but this time he managed to remain sitting until the dizziness began to subside slowly. Morrissey was out there. Cross’s mind suddenly took him back to a moment when they’d spent an entire day watching the NCAA Finals in their room. Cross had stood up too fast, felt himself begin to black out, and then Morrissey was there, catching him before he could hit the tiled floor. That was when the dark black frame had first begun to appear in his vision. It took months to get used to, disorienting him and making him prone to spills.

  “Mike,” Schmidt said again, reaching down with one hand to force Cross back onto his elbows. The radio crackled with static. He looked over to Ray. “I’m not liking this. We’re gonna have to call…”

  “Look at that, Schmitty!” Ray pointed over Cross’s head.

  Cross rolled his body over. He closed his left eye and peered into the darkness, following the faint be
am of light shining between the large cacti. Two figures walked between the long stalks, their feminine features exposed by the dim light. The flashlight beam centered on the shorter one, leaning heavily on the taller one.

  Cross inhaled sharply.

  “Look at that,” Ray said, laughing. “Would you look at that? How fucking lucky are we tonight?”

  “Mike,” Schmidt said into the radio again. “Mike, we’ve got two more. Take the ATV to Border Patrol if you can hear me. Over.”

  Ray raised his gun, aiming it along the path of the faded flashlight beam. “These some more of your friends, Padre?”

  Cross watched Maria and her sister clumsily fight their way between two thin cactus pipes. They were only about twenty yards from the foot of the hill, Maria struggling to keep her sister on her feet, her hand clutching the loose fabric of Luone’s shirt.

  “You gotta be honest with us, priest,” Schmidt said. His eyes were following the beam, watching the women as they struggled desperately to reach the foot of the hill. Maria must know, Cross thought—she must know who was flashing the light but simply didn’t care. Of course, they couldn’t have stayed. A murder scene, two women left alive and unharmed after just traveling back into Mexico…

  And Cross had abandoned them. He shook his head, cursing himself.

  “I shoulda shot you before I knew,” Ray said. His gun was wavering, following the movement of both women. Cross couldn’t see the man’s eyes, but he could see his mouth, the teeth exposed and grinding together. “You son of a bitch. How many Mexicans are you leading through here? Do you know what they’re doing when they get here? Don’t you get what’s going on?”

  “Call Mike again,” Cross told Schmidt. He could feel the skin on his legs prickling with invisible needles. The figures at the base of the hill were tunneling, spinning away and growing distant. The disorientation felt worse now as if he was going blind all over again. “Tell him to stop my friend. You can take us both in.”

  “He ain’t responding,” Schmidt said.

  “Try him again!”